SPECTRE
by elbowface
Summary: A modern introduction to one of the oldest, most powerful, and most forgotten characters in the DC Comics Universe.


SPECTRE: PILOT CHAPTER

_EDGE CITY 2014_

Pain.

There is nothing in the world but pain – driving, blinding, white-hot agony.

Jose Coronado awoke with a start, screaming himself hoarse…but there is no one to hear him.

The necroplasm animating his flesh was ill-suited to touch matter…

He awakened far more than human…and far less. Still reeling from the forces involved in his resurrection, Coronado peeled his face from the window of an empty subway car, only just realizing that his face is mashed up against the glass. His eyelids sagging shut, he could sense his body shutting down from the exhaustion of the ordeal.

By force of will, Coronado forced himself onto unsteady feet, leaning against the seat as he regained his bearings. Though a perfect replica of his mortal form, his current body had never walked before - it had no 'muscle' memory.

Instinctively, Coronado knew he should dedicate a few days to training it properly, but he doesn't have the time. Collecting an array of bumps and bruises, Coronado exited the train and shambled across the empty subway platform, ascending the steep flight of stairs to arise from beneath the Earth…

And rejoin the world of Man.

Only when he reached street-level did he find himself surrounded by people. The bustling cacophony of human traffic and activity are familiar.

Coronado recognized his hometown: Edge City.

His steps are purposeful as he walked toward a church, St. Benedict's Cathedral.

Entering the confessional booth inside, Coronado dutifully crossed himself. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he spoke in a humble tone. "It has been…a long time since my last confession. I was a cop, and good at my job. I was married. I had a good life…"

Pausing, Coronado braced himself before continuing, "Then my wife was raped. We…we caught the guy who did it, but he got off. I tracked him down... and I killed him."

"This is a terrible, **terrible** sin, my son," the Priest replied earnestly.

Nodding numbly, Coronado continued. "Two months later, I cornered this petty thief who had a gun. He opened up on me, and I took five bullets to the face and neck... and I died…And because I had killed a man in cold blood, I went to Hell."

Noting the stunned silence from the other side of the confessional booth's screen, Coronado cocked his head curiously. "You okay in there, Father?"

Shaking his head slightly, Jose Coronado went on. "You know, it's funny, but even in the most maximum security penitentiary—from time to time—inmates will escape. It happened on Devil's Island, it happened at Alcatraz, and six weeks ago…" Coronado's voice and expression hardened, "it happened in Hell. One hundred and thirteen of the most vile creatures who ever walked the Earth escaped. **And now they're back.**"

Finally breaking his silence, the Priest responded quietly. "But the Prince of Lies, the Master of Hell…surely, having his subjects back on Earth, spreading Chaos and Destruction, all this would bring a smile to his face."

"I don't know, Father," Coronado replied dubiously. "You of all people know that even the Devil has to answer to a Higher Power. He screwed up, and now he needs someone to fix things. Someone to track down these creatures... **and send them back to Hell." **

Coronado could practically _hear_ the Priest taunting him, his patience wearing thin. "Why are you telling me this... this, ridiculous story?" he scoffed.

"Oh, come on, Father," Jose Coronado replied coldly, his hand moving to his weapon as he coiled to strike. "I think **you** know why."

Suddenly, the wooden confessional booth shattered into a hail of splinters as the Priest burst out and ran with inhuman speed. Scampering out of the Cathedral and across the street, an oncoming taxi screeched loudly as it slammed into the fleeing Priest…

But as the taxi skidded sideways and crashed into a fire hydrant, the Priest merely bounced of the car—_unharmed_—glancing furtively over his shoulder to see Jose Coronado gamely following him on foot.

Turning into an alley, the Priest was apparently cornered by a chain link fence blocking his path. Standing at the mouth of the alley, Coronado leveled his gun on the Priest. "Time to give the Devil his due…."

Just then, a blinding floodlight from an unmarked police squad car lit up the alleyway, sirens

blaring. "DROP IT!" Detective Crispus Allen ordered, drawing his weapon, determined to protect the innocent Priest from the armed mugger. "ARE YOU DEAF? I SAID DROP IT!"

Sighing, Coronado dropped his weapon. Holstering his pistol, Detective Allen frisked Coronado before shoving him against the squad car to handcuff him.

After Allen's partner, Paula Percival, finished covering her partner, she then turned around to calm the frightened Priest, asking, "Father, are you okay?"

But the Priest was gone.

Instead, all she saw was a gaping hole in the chain link fence, with the edges still glowing cherry red from where someone—_or something_—burned through it.

Approaching the hole cautiously, Percival gingerly touched the glowing embers at the edge of the hole, burning herself. "Oww! Son of a bitch!" she cursed, sucking on her burnt finger.

"I'm going to go find that Priest before he gets hurt," she hollered back to her partner, Detective Allen, as he finished handcuffing Coronado and bent him over their squad car.

"All right," Allen acknowledged.

"You're working the kids, right?" Coronado asked quietly.

Allen frowned at the unexpected question from the suspect. "What?"

"The missing altar boys," Coronado prompted impatiently. "How many so far?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Allen retorted.

"Oh, you think I did it, huh?" Coronado sniffed disdainfully. "It was the **Priest** you idiots let escape!"

"The _Priest_ that you were running around trying to kill?" Allen mocked. "You know, you can go to Hell for something like that."

"Already been there," Coronado muttered.

Detective Allen squinted in a frown. "You know what I think?"

"I could care less," Coronado deadpanned

"I think it was **you **that snatched those two altar boys. The Father spotted you trying to snatch number three, so **you **decided to take him out, huh? No witnesses."

"Two," Coronado repeated softly. "Thanks for your help, officer."

Planting his foot against the car, Coronado pushed off of it, effortlessly launching himself in the air and tumbling back onto Detective Allen, smashing the back of his head into Allen's face, blood pouring from his nose and involuntary tears stinging the policeman's eyes. Coronado then rolled away, snapping the handcuffs like twigs, and recovered his sidearm.

As Allen painfully clutched his nose, Coronado jogged away.

# #

Home.

Even more than accomplishing his Mission, the primal compulsion to go home consumed him with an intense ferocity he could not escape…

_But you can never go home again._

Instead of finding his familiar brownstone apartment building…instead of finding his beloved wife Bella, he found only the punch line to Hell's cosmic joke.

In place of the worn, familiar lines of his home, he found a Starbucks, anchoring a gleaming, new-looking strip mall…

_What the hell happened here. __**Where the fuck is my apartment!**_

"Uh, I d-dunno sir," the clueless, freckle-faced kid behind the counter stammered to the crazy dude across from him. "Hasn't this place always been here?"

With his home gone, Coronado wearily returned to an alternate refuge he remembered from his early years on the police force, retiring to a dingy transient hotel he remembered in Chinatown—oddly enough, _that_ rat hole had remained undisturbed by Progress.

Entering the lobby, the strong familiar scent of cheap pine oil disinfectant stung his nostrils, still barely masking the layers of human misery and desperation that lurked underneath. Approaching the front desk, the clerk—a young Asian girl, no more than 20, with a nose ring and too much makeup—completely ignored him, engrossed in the impossibly tiny…_television?_...she was watching at her post.

But then, the tiny TV started playing music, and the girl paused her movie as her fingers flew across the impossibly tiny keyboard of the magical, _wallet-sized_ device with the precision of a concert pianist before resuming her movie…

At absolutely no time did the girl ever once look up to even acknowledge Coronado's presence.

He briefly wondered if he had suddenly faded away into the ghost he was. "Ahem," he cleared his throat loudly to gain her attention.

Again, the girl never even looked up. "Yeah?"

"Room, please," he said in a low tone.

"I'll need a major credit card and an ID," she replied in a bored tone.

Luckily, his resurrection had not only included a re-creation of his body, but everything he had worn the day he was killed—the clothes he was wearing, his gun, his badge, and his wallet, which contained all of its original contents—a couple pictures of his wife, his Driver's License, $128 in cash, his Blockbuster Video Rental Card, and his credit cards.

Oddly enough, the dates on his Driver's License and his credit cards were all updated to reflect the current date. He even had the same available balances on his credit cards-$2000 available on his MasterCard and a little over $1200 available on his Visa card—as the day he died.

As the clerk uploaded his information into her desktop computer, Coronado couldn't help staring at the tiny device that had mesmerized the girl moments before. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen a TV that small before."

"TV? What TV?" the clerk asked, looking up at him for the first time. "Are you talking about my phone? "

"Your…phone?" Coronado repeated, stunned. "Like, to make phone calls with? But you were watching a movie on it, and you just sent that email. It looks really fancy. Is it new?"

"Email?" she frowned. "You mean tweeting? And this thing isn't even the new 'Droid. Where have you been?"

Coronado blinked. _Tweeting?_ "Out of the country."

"Like where, in a cave?" she said sarcastically.

"Down under."

"Huh." She slid a keycard across the counter to him. "There you go. The elevator's still busted, but you're only on the third floor."

Coronado took the keycard and trudged towards the stairs. "As long as I'm going up," he muttered under his breath.

00000000000

Jose wearily inspected his new quarters.

It wasn't much.

A red neon sign glowed brightly outside his window, flooding the room with its amber glare. As Coronado closed the door behind him, a police siren wailed loudly outside, passing on the streets below his third floor window. As the sirens died down, a toilet flushed next door.

Coronado sighed, taking off his jacket. Entering the tiny bathroom, he stepped toward the sink and wiped the cracked mirror, staring at his reflected image as he turned on the water.

As he washed up, he discovered a series of strange, runic tattoos _all over_ his arms, beneath his sleeves...

_What the hell?_

"The names of the fugitives," a Voice explained loudly behind him, callously reading his mind. "Penned in my native tongue, of course."

As the Voice chuckled girlishly, Coronado traced it to the fire escape, creeping towards it with his gun drawn.

Aztar languidly relaxed against the fire escape railing, silhouetted by the flickering neon light. "You know, they planned this for centuries. Totally unprecedented," she reflected quietly, her tone caressing each syllable with a sensual purr. "Oh, there have been a few, over the millennia, who have slipped through the cracks. Isolated incidents, but never anything like this."

Aztar smirked knowingly. "They think they can cheat the Devil." She shook her head. "They're wrong. Nobody beats the System. You should realize that better than anyone, SPECTRE."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Coronado glared. Though his memory of Hell remained hazy after his reincarnation, he could still recall that word, that term…**SPECTRE**…being branded into his soul. Apart from simply torturing him, there was a significance to the term he could not quite recall.

"Because that is what you are," she replied forcefully, her amusement instantly replaced with deadly sincerity. "To be selected SPECTRE is to be selected as Sacred Guardian of Hell's Gateway to the Realm of Man. Pray you prove worthy of the title—**failure** will be punished."

Her expression darkened menacingly. "No matter what you might think, there are fates that are **worse** than Hell." Eclipso—the previous Spectre blamed for allowing this jailbreak in the first place—was currently discovering this for himself the hard way…

Coronado grimaced. "Fine. Then what are **you** doing here?" he demanded.

_He isn't ready for this yet. _

In time, Spectre would be able to face off against beings infinitely more powerful than this troublesome Priest….but **not **today.

Like all new arrivals to Hell, the new Spectre was still thinking and fighting like a Mortal, largely ignorant of the broad spectrum of untapped demonic potential within him. Although consciously aware he was dead, the new Spectre stubbornly clung to his Human identity.

_Well, no matter._

_In time, that will change._

Her expression relaxing, Aztar smiled again ruefully. She _did_ get him into this, so she supposed she had _some_ responsibility to help him out. "Well, it is your first day on the job, and you dropped the ball," she chided playfully. "I'm thinking maybe I picked the wrong guy."

"Yeah, maybe you did."

Aztar chuckled, her feral grin offering a peak at the Demon lurking beneath the humanoid shell she was adopting for this encounter. Given his relative youth, Jose Corrigan was **not** the most obvious choice for SPECTRE; there were no shortage of more ancient, more immediately powerful Demons who might have filled this role…

_But none that could be entrusted with the power of the SPECTRE._

Besides, as a more recent arrival to Hell, Jose Coronado enjoyed a far better understanding of the numerous, baffling intricacies of the contemporary Human world. _Yes, this new Spectre would be far better suited to investigate and track down escapees in this befuddling new environment…_

_But that didn't make this new Spectre any less prone to tiresome whining._

For instance, Coronado was still complaining. "…he was stronger than me, and faster. He even burned a hole through a chain link fence."

Aztar just shrugged. "Well, he **was** Our guest for over a century. You were only with Us for what, thirteen years?" Her eyes crackled with savage knowledge. "The longer you are in Hell, the more it becomes _a part_ of you. **Literally.** Some of those that escaped have been Ours since the dawn of time…and have the powers to prove it."

Coronado frowned. "Terrific. Nice odds."

"Relax," Aztar replied reassuringly. "You all play by the same rules…more or less."

"_More or less?"_ Coronado asked, clearly demanding a more detailed explanation.

"Well, you're already dead, so you can't be killed," she explained casually. "You can't even feel pain, unless it is inflicted by another Damned soul."

"So how am I supposed to send them back?"

"Oh, did I forget to tell you that part?" Aztar chuckled. "It's the eyes, windows to the soul. Anyone, alive or dead: destroy the eyes, and the Damned get a one-way ticket back home to Hell."

"Including me?"

Aztar shook her head mockingly. "Silly question, SPECTRE," she chided. "Last time I checked, you _are_ one of the Damned. Now, stop asking questions, and get back to work. It's the only way you'll ever earn your second chance at Life on Earth."

"Yeah, about that second chance," Coronado began, Aztar smiling appreciatively. "How does that work, exactly?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out," she demurred. "In the event you actually succeed at rounding up all 113 of your wayward brothers and sisters."

Coronado grimaced. "Only 113 to 1, huh? Great."

Standing behind Coronado, Aztar whispered hotly into his ear. "**Remember,** Spectre, Lowell Hapner was a rapist, **not** a murderer. He didn't kill your wife. You had no right to kill him. The Universe doesn't work like the American legal system. You do something, you pay for it."

"That is all I was doing!" Coronado retorted. "I was trying to make the bastard pay!"

"Yes, yes," Aztar taunted. _Such passion. Ahh, to be young again!_ "Now **that's** what I like to hear! The indomitable spirit, that righteous indignation of the human species. I've heard it a billion times, defending a billion atrocities, and it's still music to my ears!"

"Hey, listen," Coronado hissed, "No matter what you call me, **you **still need me as much as I need you. You may be all powerful down below, but up here, you're just another corporate big shot who's trying to cover her ass. If you can't police your own, **no one** is ever going to be afraid of you again."

More amused than anything, Aztar merely held up a single finger and jabbed it into Spectre's sternum, pushing him off the fire escape with deceptive force. Crashing unhurt on the pavement below, Coronado dusted himself off, bathed in the harsh amber glow of the Damned.

#

In the Eleventh Precinct, Detective Paula Percival was showing around a sketch of the assailant that escaped from her partner. Although he wasn't too badly injured, she sent Crisp home early to recover, sporting a bandage on his nose and an angry purple bruising spreading across his brow, the swelling nearly sealing his eyes shut.

That disturbed Paula greatly. Crispus Allen was a capable cop, standing over 6'4'' and sporting more muscles than a college linebacker. Prior to being assigned as Paula's partner, Crisp had been a martial arts instructor at the Academy for nearly two years, with a red belt in Jiu-Jitsu and a highly accomplished amateur mixed martial artist. If this suspect was skilled enough to overpower Crisp—_**while he was secured in handcuffs, no less!—**_this man was extremely dangerous.

As Paula mulled over these thoughts privately, her boss, Lt. Fedoriw, looked over her shoulder to study the sketch on her desk and frowned. "You know, this is kinda strange. I'd swear your suspect is Jose Coronado."

"Who?"

"Homicide Detective who worked out of Metro South… before your time," Lt. Fedoriw explained. "I was his Sergeant, right after he got the gold shield. Good cop. Can't be him though."

"Why not?"

"Because he's dead," Lt. Fedoriw huffed. "Got blown away by some trigger-happy punk, oh, must have been over ten years ago." Fedoriw turned to leave for the day. "Night, Paula."

"Hey, thanks," Detective Percival replied, mulling over this new information. She stared at the sketch intently.

#

"**SO**…how many of you have been to a museum before?" Ms. Gilliam wondered aloud to her fourth-grade class. Confronted by a forest of raised hands, she smiled graciously. "Oh, almost everybody. So you know how to behave, right? No touching anything, no fooling around."

However, no sooner had she finished when she was interrupted by a shoving match toward the back of her small herd of children.

Studying this rowdy bunch in mild amusement, the Priest approached the group, quoting:

"Happy hearts and happy faces,

Happy play in grassy places,

That was how in ancient ages,

Children grew to kings and sages."

Ms. Gilliam crooked her head, favoring the Priest with an admiring smile. "Did you write that, Father?"

"Oh, no, it wasn't me, no," he smiled gently. "It was Robert Louis Stevenson. Yes, he wrote that in 1885, just a few years after this was painted," he explained, pointing to the painting on exhibit. "It was a better time then, more innocent. This city was clean, unspoiled. In those

days, when it snowed, it didn't turn to gray, ugly slush. It was white for days on end. Like Heaven."

"You sound like you were there," she mused.

"Oh, but I was."

The teacher looked at him oddly, so he clarified, "In my dreams, of course."

"Oh, yes of course" she said, relieved.

A student approached and tugged on Ms. Gilliam's arm, interrupting their conversation with all the Sunday School courtesy of an altar boy. "Ms. Gilliam, I've got to use the bathroom."

"One second, Chris," she said curtly, spotting another problem. "Austin, Billy, **cut that out**!"

"I'd be happy to take him, if you'd like," the Priest offered helpfully.

"Oh, thank you, Father," she said gratefully. "Would you?"

"Yes, come along," he smiled, holding out his hand to the young boy, Chris.

As he led the child away, Ms. Gilliam turned back to the main group of children. "Stop that. **Cut it out!**"

#

Back at the police station, Detective Percival was starting to regret having shared her insights with her partner. No one had ever accused Crispus Allen as being the most open-minded of thinkers.

"So, you think our guy is Lt. Jose Coronado, Edge City P.D., killed in the line of duty in June of 2001? Okay," Allen replied sarcastically.

"I know it sounds crazy," Paula argued. "But I've got a theory. Seven months before Coronado was killed, his wife got raped. They caught the guy, Lowell Hapner, but couldn't put a case together against him, so he got off."

"And?"

"And, two months before Coronado was killed, Hapner turns up dead," Paula explained.

"How?" Allen asked curiously.

"It was a drug overdose, ruled accidental," Paula answered. "The guy was an habitual user, real scumbag. End of story."

"Except..." Crisp prompted, sensing his partner still had more to say.

"Except, Internal Affairs doesn't think it's the end of the story," Paula added excitedly. "They started an investigation against Coronado. But before they can put a case together, he turns up dead…**with half his face shot off.** ID had to be made using forensics and departmental records."

"So what are you telling me?" Allen demanded.

"I think Coronado killed Lowell Hapner and that he made it _look like_ a drug overdose," Paula explained. "Look, I.A. was closing in on him after the rape, his marriage was on the rocks, his whole life was going to Hell. He had no reason to stick around and risk going to jail. So, he found a way out."

Allen frowned skeptically. "So you think he **faked** his own death?"

"Makes sense," Paula replied defensively, suddenly feeling a little less sure of herself.

Allen nodded pensively for a moment. "That all sounds good, P, except for a few things that still don't make sense," he replied slowly.

While Detective Crispus Allen was admittedly a hardened skeptic, he also prided himself on being as fair and objective as anyone. "Like, what is he doing back **now**? Why is he in an alley, chasing a priest? And what is a hero cop doing killing little altar boys? Even if he was alive….which he **isn't**."

#

He returned to the church he visited the night before. Nearly deserted, the chambers of the cathedral echoed as he walked down the aisle and approached a priest seated near the front. "Father Miniweather?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Detective Jose Coronado, Edge City P.D. I need to ask you some questions about the priest who was working the confessional last night." He held out his badge…only to discover that the priest was blind.

"Would you hand me your badge, please?" Father Miniweather requested politely. After Coronado complied, the priest felt it before responding. "That would have been Father Solinas. May I ask what this is about, Detective?"

#

In Father Solinas's room, Coronado looked around. Father Miniweather accompanied him, though he couldn't believe the allegations. "These accusations are ridiculous. I can't believe Father Solinas had anything to do with this."

"Edward Solinas had a whole other life you know nothing about, Father," the Spectre explained patiently. "You may spend all your time with God, but Solinas keeps different company."

"Young man, don't think because I'm blind, I don't know what goes on outside these walls," Father Miniweather lectured sternly. "Six years ago, I was walking home from the grocery store late at night when a man dragged his wife out on the street and started beating her head against the sidewalk - what you police call a domestic dispute."

Ducking his head slightly, Father Miniweather's mouth straightened to a melancholy frown. "I tried to stop him. I didn't know he had a gun. Luckily, he was drunk at the time and his aim was a little off. The bullet shattered the bridge of my nose and grazed one eye…the muzzle flash took care of the other."

While Father Miniweather was recounting his tale, Coronado was focused on searching for clues. As Coronado turned on the lamp, Father Miniweather didn't react. "Brightest light you've ever seen," Coronado recalled softly. "You think you're going to Heaven, but then you wake up someplace else."

Father Miniweather cocked his head toward his visitor curiously. "How do you know that?"

"I knew someone who was shot in the face," Coronado replied distantly.

"Did he survive?"

"No." Spectre expanded his search to Father Solinas' closet. "So whatever happened to the woman?"

As the priest answered, Coronado discovered what looked like some old coins…

"Heard she testified on her husband's behalf." Father Miniweather shook his head. "At first, I thought it might be a blessing, not to have to look human Evil in the face again. But I was wrong. In the end, it just made it harder to believe, to keep faith in the justice of God's universe. And it gets worse every day."

Pocketing the old coins from Solinas' wardrobe, Coronado hesitated for a moment, genuinely curious about something. "Did you ever want to make him suffer?"

"I struggled with that," Father Miniweather replied honestly. "But what good would it have done? It wouldn't bring my sight back."

"There is justice, Father," Spectre said assuringly, walking past him toward the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed…

He didn't make it.

Detective Percival burst in, her gun drawn. "Freeze! Hands Up!"

"Sorry about your partner's nose," Coronado apologized nonchalantly.

"I should go to church more often," Paula smirked flippantly, pleased that her instincts had proven right. "Put your hands on the dresser."

Paula motioned to the Spectre with her gun. "Go on, over there."

Father Miniweather, unable to observe this interaction, asked, "Detective Coronado, what's happening here? Do you know this woman?"

"He's not a detective, Father" Paula insisted forcefully. "Not anymore. He's a suspect in the disappearance of those two altar boys. Father, I want you to go to your office and call 911. Ask for Detective Crispus Allen, Eleventh Precinct."

"You're wrong. Whatever this man is, he's not a criminal," Father Miniweather insisted.

"Father, go to your office and call the police. Now." Paula turned her attention back to Spectre. "And you, spread 'em. Spread 'em!"

Spectre bowed his head. "Do what she says, Father."

But then—before either Father Miniweather or Detective Percival could react—Spectre took several lightning-fast steps toward the adjacent stained-glass window and hurled himself through it. Crashing onto the landing two floors down, Spectre then shimmied up the side of the building with inhuman speed and grace toward the roof…

#

On the roof, Detective Percival quickly caught up and appeared behind Coronado, wheezing and winded from the chase. "Freeze!"

Looking back over his shoulder, Spectre continued racing across the roof. In a feat of superhuman ability, he leaped over the edge of the building and sailed in the air over to the rooftop across the alley.

Cursing, Paula ran after him in hot pursuit. Reaching the edge of the rooftop herself, hesitating as she peered nervously over the edge, looking down into the alley below…way, way below. _Fuck me._

Sucking in a deep breath and silently congratulating herself for wearing flats, Paula decided to imitate her suspect and jump across. Backing up several steps and bouncing on the balls of her feet to psyche herself up, Paula made a running start, screaming as she charged and leaped across to the next rooftop…

She didn't make it.

Instead of easily clearing the distance like Coronado, Paula Percival fell short, barely managing to grab onto the fire escape railing. Her sweaty grasp slipping in her greasy palms, she desperately tried to pull herself up…but she couldn't.

Coronado approached the edge, shaking his head sadly as Paula struggled. Leaning over to grab Detective Percival by the wrists, a panicked Paula vainly attempted to shake him off, her terrified eyes stabbing the Spectre with a silent, frantic plea…

_That Look. Those Eyes. That frantic, wordless plea…_

_That Same Look, those Same Eyes, that Same Plea while struggling with Lowell Hapner…_

_His fingers sinking into Hapner's arm, pinning Hapner to the bed before injecting him with the fatal overdose…_

Despite Paula's fruitless squirming, Coronado effortlessly pulled her up and over the fire escape. Landing heavily on the roof in a heap, Paula staggered to her feet, staring at Coronado in disbelief. "You…you saved my life," she coughed, catching her stunned breath.

"Maybe I'm not the bad guy you think I am."

"I know who you are," Paula corrected, swallowing hard. "You're Detective Lieutenant Jose Coronado. You broke the Saint Mark's Strangler Case in '97. You solved the Levy Brother's Double Homicide in '99. You were one of the most decorated cops in Metro South."

Spectre blinked, shocked at being recognized.

Paula continued:

"Then one day, your wife got raped, and you snapped. You killed a suspect."

Spectre, who had started to walk away, stopped.

He turned and marched right up to Paula so swiftly she couldn't react. Paula tried to pull her gun, but Spectre stopped nose-to-nose with the annoying mortal. "**He was guilty."**

"So are you," she retorted, refusing to back down. "I know you're looking into the missing altar boys. Tell me what you know about this case."

"You wouldn't believe me if I did."

"Why not?"

"Because you seem like an intelligent woman."

"Well, you know what?" Paula demanded, "Maybe I'm not as bright as I look. Try me."

Frowning at her, Spectre scowled deeply into her eyes, almost as if searching for something. After a moment, Coronado relaxed slightly, as if satisfied that he had found it. "The man behind this is Edward Solinas, a priest who started seeing the four living creatures from the Book of Revelations here on Earth."

"'Four living creatures'? What is that?" Paula asked.

"Chapter four, Verse six," Spectre clarified. "The four holy beasts who have something to do with the Second Coming of Christ, only there's a catch: they can't play their role unless they're in Heaven. Solinas started seeing the four creatures in the faces of children…altar boys, to be exact."

Then the Spectre paused a moment as he turned away from Detective Percival, taking several steps before delivering the rest of the background information…where he knew he would lose her. "He killed sixteen kids in Italy before he was finally forced to escape. He ended up here in the United States in 1896."

From her expression, Paula clearly didn't believe this, but Spectre continued anyway, "where he killed 8 more kids. Right here, in this city, before he was stopped. Now, he's back for more."

"1896." she scoffed. "That's crazy!"

But the Spectre continued, "The only thing going for these kids is that he sends them all back to Heaven **together**. He won't kill one until he has all four…which means there's still time."

As Spectre stalked away, she called out. "Hey, wait a minute!"

This prompted Spectre to turn and make a correction concerning something Paula said earlier. "Oh, yeah, there's one more thing: I wasn't _one_ of the most decorated cops in Metro South: I was **THE **most decorated."

"Stop it," Paula snapped. "You know what, I want the truth."

"I told you the truth."

Detective Percival leveled her gun on Coronado. "You stop, or I'll blow your legs out from under you."

Spectre just shrugged, continuing to walk away.

Detective Percival fired three times, striking Coronado in the legs, but Coronado never stopped.

And when the…_ghost? Spirit? Apparition?..._reached the edge of the roof, he serenely leaped over the side, without giving the exasperated detective a second look.

When Paula peered over the edge of the roof…the Spectre was gone.

#

Driving to the Edge City Fine Arts Museum on a call later that night, Detective Percival was consumed with events of the single strangest night of her life…

_Events that will have to wait._ Between the radio call and the urgent text messages from her partner, Paula knew that she had to keep her concentration focused on the task at hand: those missing boys.

Uniformed officers on the scene led her into the museum bathroom, where Detective Allen was already examining as he waited for her—along with an entire forensics team, scouring for evidence.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. I got here as quick as I could," Paula said apologetically.

Nodding, Allen filled her in quickly. "We got a third one missing. Christopher Logan, age 11. We also got this here."

Frowning, Paula studied the imprint in the door, and the trail of ooze that led to a body…not a child, probably a full grown man from the size of the body and the janitor's uniform. There was very little left of him above the neck to identify.

"Look behind the stall," Allen told her.

Paula opened the door, careful to use her elbow so as not to leave fingerprints. "Whoa! Looks like someone burned their hand _right through his head_."

"Looks like."

"What about the boy?" she asked.

"Teacher says he was last seen with a priest."

Paula examined the ooze. She had never seen or heard of anything like this. "What is all this stuff?"

"Found it all over the floor and on the body." Allen tossed Paula a sample inside an evidence baggie. "Here."

"Three out of four," Paula muttered to herself, fingering the evidence bag thoughtfully.

"What?"

"What do you know about the Bible?" Paula inquired.

"Huh? Which part?" her partner asked, puzzled.

"Revelations, Chapter four-"

"Not much for Sunday school," Allen interrupted, shaking his head. "Where are you going with this?"

"I think those kids are still alive," Paula said firmly.

#

In his pawn shop, Ahmed finished his examination of the coins Coronado had brought in. Putting down his magnifying glass, he offered Coronado a sympathetic look. "Well, you can forget about paying for the kid's college with these, my friend. You _might_ get a few bucks from a museum."

"What are they?" Coronado demanded impatiently.

"Subway tokens, circa 1900…give or take a few years," the pawn clerk commented, lighting up a cigarette. "Bit of a collector's item, but not really valuable," he added, handing the tokens back to Coronado.

#

In the Eleventh Precinct, Paula finished jotting down some notes as she hung up her cell phone. "Hey, that was the lab," she informed her partner.

"So, what was that stuff?" Allen wondered.

"Sodium chloride," Paula answered, briefly looking down at her notes. "It's a… H2SO4Na(Cl2)2 compound."

"Do I _look_ like Dr. Science to you?" Allen fumed. "What does that mean?"

"It means that whoever was in that bathroom has one hell of a glandular problem." Paula quipped.

When Allen shot her a questioning look, Paula explained, "That stuff we found in the museum bathroom and that janitor's melted body? It's _human sweat_…but two-thirds of it was made of sulfur."

#

"Here you go, it's the earliest one we have," the museum curator informed Coronado as she unscrolled the map.

"Great, thank you," Coronado replied as he took another paper from his pocket and lay the translucent sheet of grease paper over the map, which showed streets and subway lines.

The curator watched, coming around her desk to stand next to the mysterious, handsome detective. "What is it you're looking for?"

"The east fork of the original Lexington Avenue line, no longer in use." With a red felt pen, Coronado began outlining key points on the grease paper, constructing his own map overlay.

The curator cocked her head curiously. "What are those?"

"Churches," Corrigan replied, focused on his work. "Both within a couple blocks of the line."

"Are you looking for a place to pray?" she asked. _Okay, so he's the religious type—I can work with that. _ Recently turning 35 and still single, she found she was becoming far more open-minded and tolerant about such personal quirks.

"Do you have any idea what year this part of the line was shut down?" Coronado asked, ignoring her question.

Puzzled by the dark urgency of his request, the curator fiddled nervously with her glasses as she considered his question. "Um, it was probably during World War One, when the city was expanding past the river and into the outer suburbs."

_In other words, that part of the rail system was still active while Father Solinas was alive._ Frowning, Corrigan absently tapped his marker against the table, thinking. "What did they do with the old tunnels?"

"They're still there," she replied, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "They didn't fill them in, just sealed them up with bricks and mortar."

He nodded, confident he knew where the Priest was holding the children now. "Can I borrow this?" he asked, indicating the aged, yellow paper of the map.

She laughed. _Bold and Cute._ "No, that's museum property. It's very valuable. But I can send a copy to your phone."

Coronado blinked.

_My __**phone**__? Phones can do that too, now?_ "Ahh…you know, I lost my phone the other day. Could you just print out a hard copy I could take with me?" he asked, shaking off his confusion.

The curator smiled, nodding girlishly. "Sure, no problem. If you could wait here, I'll be right back."

"That'd be great. Also, I wanted to donate these to the, uh, to the museum." Coronado took the old tokens from his pocket and handed them to her.

"Um, thanks," the curator stammered. _Okay, maybe not a bouquet of flowers, but definitely sweet._

Pausing, she finally built up the courage to make a move. "You know, Detective, the museum closes at six," she observed shyly. "If you're not doing anything, I could tell you more about the history of Edge City's underground…say, over a drink?"

"I'm very, uh, flattered," Corrigan replied slowly, "but I'm married."

_Of course you are. _ "Well," she said wistfully, suppressing a disappointed sigh, "That's too bad."

As she walked away to make a copy of the map, Corrigan added, "Not to mention dead."

#

In the police basement, Detective Percival burrowed through a mountain of old case files until she finally discovered what she was looking for. She recognized the picture of a man in a hangman's noose - Father Solinas.

The resemblance was uncanny. It could not be coincidence. It was the same man.

_And he hasn't aged a day._

"Guilty on all eight counts," Paula murmured to herself, reading the text of the accompanying article. _**"Sentenced to death by hanging. Sentence carried out November 21st, 1906." **_

A hand fell on her shoulder, startling her violently. "Geez!"

Equally startled by his partner's reaction, Allen raised his hands and backed away defensively. "Will you calm down, P?!"

"Come on!" Paula protested, trying not to sound like a total wuss.

"You're going to give us both a heart attack!" Allen complained, looking over all the ancient paper and microfiche files his partner was studying. "What are you rifling through all this old crap for anyway? These files have been dead since before both of us were born."

Paula handed him a file. "I'm following up on a lead. I got a name, and it wasn't in the system. Then I remembered the computerized system only goes back to 1975. Anything before that, you have to come down here and get your hands dirty."

Allen barely glanced at the file. "What do you mean, **before** that?"

"Here, listen to this," Paula said excitedly, pulling out a Bible. "It's Revelations, chapter four, verse six. '_I was in the spirit. And there before me was a throne in Heaven, and in the center, around the throne were four living creatures…_'"

#

Speaking over the reverberations of the subway trains rumbling by in the background, Father Solinas reverently blessing each bound and gagged child in turn, placing an animal mask on each one as he went.

He pointedly ignored their whimpering tears and useless squirming as he faithfully executed his Holy Mission. "And the first living creature was like a lion," he quoted, placing the mask onto little Christopher Logan before closing his eyes in prayerful supplication once more. "The second living creature was like a calf. The third living creature had a face like a man…"

Reopening his eyes, the Priest gazed hopefully upward, through the walls of the abandoned subway platform toward the completion of his Mission, his madness flickering brightly in the darkness. "And the fourth living creature will be revealed unto me tonight."

###

Using his map overlay and old maps, Coronado found the entrance to the abandoned portion of the Lexington Avenue Line.

Once inside, he walked the tracks, noting generations of graffiti branding the subterranean walls as he made his way through the old subway line…

Soon, Coronado's expression flashed with recognition, stooping to the ground to retrieve more train tokens, like the ones he found earlier in the Priest's closet. As he scooped them up to examine them more closely, he heard a child moaning.

Jaw clenching, the Spectre drew his weapon and followed the sound, tracing it to a locked door leading further into the tunnels. Snapping the relatively new-looking lock with his bare hands, he searched inside, watching for any sign of Father Solinas. As he shined the beam of his flashlight around the dank underground chamber, he spotted the missing children.

"It's okay, it's okay," he reassured them—_or as well as it can be, being rescued by a Soul of the Damned._"I'm a policeman. I'm not going to hurt you, all right?" He removed the animal-head masks. "Are you guys all right?"

He cut their ropes and asked Chris, "You. The man who did this to you, did you see where he went?"

"He…h-he went to get another kid," Chris answered.

"All right, this is what we're going to do," Coronado said firmly. "We're going to get you out of here as fast as we can."

#

"Look, Paula, there's got to be another explanation," Crispus Allen said reasonably as the two rode through the rain in their unmarked squad car. "People do **not** come back from the dead."

"So how do you explain the physical evidence, huh?" Paula countered. "What about the photograph?"

"There's nothing that says that this priest is anything but another run-of-the-mill psycho," Crispus Allen replied dismissively. "As for the 100-year-old photograph, so what? I see people all the time that look alike. My neighboer looks like Lee Harvey Oswald; does that mean he shot Kennedy?" he asked sarcastically. "I don't think so."

#

Coronado helped the children up onto the street. "All right, remember, Detective Percival. You ask for Detective Percival, right?" he reminded them.

The children all nodded in unison.

"Say it," Coronado ordered, watching them climb up the ladder.

"Detective Percival," a child repeated.

"That's it," Coronado praised encouragingly. "Hang on now. Hang on."

#

"What about the bullets I pumped into Coronado's leg, huh?" Paula challenged insistently. "How do you explain that?"

"Kevlar leg armor," Allen responded flatly. "I saw a used set of them on sale last month on Ebay. $69.99 a shin."

Now normally, Crispus Allen would have been more concerned for his partner's sanity…**if** he took her seriously, which he still wasn't—_for her sake._

Truthfully, he liked Paula.

He was one of the less chauvinistic males on the Force, and he always treated her as an equal. He had also never tried hitting on her (always awkward) or let the politically-correct crap get in the way either. Even today, law enforcement was still a male-dominated profession, and Paula was grateful to have found a partner with whom she could be so comfortable.

Therefore, Allen chose to treat his partner's increasingly worrisome obsession as a joke. Otherwise, he would have to report her behavior, and the psychologists would drag her away to the nuthouse—leaving him to break in a new partner. _And that would be unfortunate._

Thus, he chose to chalk up Paula's chatter to the usual inane bullshit cops talked about with their partners when they get bored. During their last stakeout, she and Allen had spent nearly 7 hours debating whether the guys from Star Wars or Star Trek would win if they fought in a war with each other.

Allen placed their current line of conversation in the same category…

"_**Unit Seven, respond**_," the police radio crackled.

"Yeah, this is Unit Seven, go ahead," Allen replied into the handset.

"_**We just received a 911 call from Lexington and 21st. They asked for Detective Percival by name." **_

"We're on it," Allen confirmed, activating the siren as Percival stomped on the accelerator…

#

Pulling up to the scene, Paula spotted the kids first. "Look, look, right there, there they are!" she exclaimed, pointing wildly as she brought the car to a screeching halt. "It's them!"

"My God," Allen muttered, eyes wide in disbelief.

"It's okay," Paula exhaled with relief, leaping from the car and striding toward the children…

Then, noting how the kids shrunk back in fear, Paula slowed her step and held up her hands in a non-threatening pose. "No - no, it's okay, we're police officers. You guys okay?" she asked gently.

When Allen noticed Percival slipping off her jacket as she walked up beside him, he mentally kicked himself. _Why didn't I think of that?_ "Hey, you guys cold?" he asked beseechingly.

The two detectives wrapped up the children with their coats. "Put this on," Percival ordered with gruff, maternal concern. "Where'd you kids come from?"

"Down there," Chris said, pointing at the over-sized sewer grate leading into the subway.

"Okay, don't move. I'm going in," Paula said.

"I'm going with you," Allen announced insistently.

"No you're not. You call E.M.S., and you call for backup," Percival ordered, pulling rank as the Senior Detective on the scene. "You stay here with these kids until somebody comes. Keep them safe."

Allen nodded, turning his attention to the kids as Percival disappeared into the sewer grate in pursuit of the kidnapper. "Hey, you guys, don't move, all right? I'll be right back, I'm going to the car. Don't move."

After calling into dispatch to confirm backup and requesting an ambulance to recover the kids, Allen came back from the car carrying a folder. He realized it was a long shot, but he couldn't resist satisfying his curiosity: he had to know. Opening up the folder, he showed them the 1906 picture of Father Solinas that Paula had dug up from the archives. "Is this the man that took you?"

"Yeah, it's him," the children confirmed.

Then, Chris reluctantly added something else. "There was another man, too. A policeman."

"Policeman?"

"The one who saved us," the little boy clarified importantly. "The one who said to call you."

#

Beneath the streets of Edge City, Detective Percival discovered the same hole in the brick wall that Coronado had used earlier to cross into the abandoned tunnels. Silently cursing to herself for leaving her flashlight in the car, she pulled her lighter from her pocket instead. But as she crossed through the wall, a breeze blew it out.

_Dammit!_

Flicking it once…twice…three times…

_There!_

Just as the lighter ignited again, however, Percival was knocked toward the ground from behind, her gun clattering across the floor, stunned as she sank to her knees…

And even more stunned to find the metal stake protruding out of her chest.

Gripping the bronze Cross in his hand like the hilt of a sword, Father Solinas savagely twisted the holy instrument in a sharp corkscrew motion, plunging the Cross even deeper into the Wicked Harlot's back and through her chest, smiting her in the Name and the Glory of the Lord….

#

Waiting in ambush for the mad Father Solinas, Coronado heard a noise.

Raising his gun, he scanned the darkened tunnel, tensing as a dark figure stepped out into

his view…

It was the fourth child, his hands tied behind his back and his mouth gagged.

Lowering his gun, Coronado ….was suddenly cracked over the head from behind by the mad Priest himself, wielding a meter-long lead pipe.

"**I know who you are**," Solinas hissed as Coronado crumbled to the floor. "You are a Soldier of Satan, one of those who conspired to cast me down into the Pit."

His eyes blazing with Holy Judgment, the Priest punctuated every sentence with another blow with the lead pipe, charged with his demonic energy. "One who would try to prevent me from my Holy Task!" he shouted, bludgeoning his Demonic Tormentor, the Spectre. "But _**I**_ am a Soldier of God!"

Tossing the pipe away, Solinas knelt beside the weakened Spectre. "You can never stop me!" the Priest screeched hushly. "I will find them again, and send them back to Heaven."

Brandishing the bronze cross with which he killed Percival, the sharpened end of the horizontal bar glistening with the fresh blood of the slain police detective. "I **will**send them all back to Heaven!" he cried, raising his holy weapon to strike…

"DON'T MOVE!" Detective Allen shouted, pushing the child out of the way and training his gun on the Priest.

Startled from his zealous frenzy, the priest locked eyes with the new detective. Then, chuckling, the Priest once again raised the cross above his head, preparing to bring it crashing down into the Spectre's eyes and banish him back to Hell…

Unable to wait any longer, Allen fired, striking Father Solinas in the chest twice.

There was no effect.

Allen fired three more times.

Ignoring the irrelevant mortal, the Priest once again raised his holy weapon to strike, aiming for the Spectre's eyes with the cross.

Out of options, Allan rushed toward the Priest and tackled him, briefly knocking the crazed Priest away from Coronado.

As they wrestled on the floor, Coronado could clearly see the mortal Allen losing ground, the initial advantage he had gained by surprising the Priest quickly disappearing. "EYES….EYES!" Coronado called out in a low, raspy tone.

Unfortunately, the Spectre's hint had come too late, the Priest throwing off the human mortal and looking to regain the weapon he had dropped…only to have Allen jump on the Priest's back again, desperately trying to claw his eyes from behind.

Quickly growing annoyed at the troublesome human, the Priest launched himself backward with all his might, ramming Allen **through** a brick wall. The two men fell backward into a live subway tunnel, with Allen landing flat on his back and the Priest lying on top of him.

The roar of an oncoming subway train growing louder, Allen's eyes widened as the metal beast rumbled toward them, its shrill whistle howling like a rabid wolf. Charged with a rush of adrenaline, Allen managed to roll the Priest off of him and leap away from the track in one fluid motion.

Infuriated by this distraction, Father Solinas staggered to his feet…

But not in time to avoid the onrushing subway train.

As the train slammed into the Priest at full speed, Allen pressed himself against the tunnel wall as if the roar of the train rushing past was itself pressing his body against the wall with additional force.

After it passed, Allen carefully opened his eyes (he hadn't even realized he had shut them) and carefully peeled himself off the wall, the cloying moisture and dank fungus of the wall clinging to him as he slowly peered over to survey the Priest's gruesomely flattened body….

Instead, his eyes widened in shock as the Priest stood up from the tracks utterly unharmed, smiling and chuckling. "Behold, I am coming soon, my reward is with me, and I will give unto everyone according to what he has done." Raising his hand, the Priest made ready to burn the irritating mortal who dared to disrupt his holy task…

"**SOLINAS."**

Growling, the Priest turned to face the bigger threat…standing in the hole in the wall they had just crashed through, the Spectre aimed his gun at Father Solinas's face.

It was the last image the Priest would ever see in the mortal realm.

With two well-placed shots, the Spectre destroyed Solinas' eyes. As the Priest screamed, a maelstrom of supernatural energy opened up, a selective black hole that sucked his soul back into Hell.

As this gateway to Hell closed behind him, Coronado cramped up in pain. Pulling up his left sleeve, his eyes widened as he saw smoke rising from one of the runic tattoos that covered his arm. As the Spectre looked on in horrid fascination, the symbol disappeared.

#

Back at street level, Allen silently watched as more police cars pulled up to the intersection where the children were waiting and already being evaluated by paramedics. Coronado quietly came up behind him and asked, "You okay?"

"I don't think so," Allen admitted quietly. "You know, everything you told her, all this," he laughed wryly, "It's insane."

"It's not as insane as watching movies on your phone," Coronado observed.

"What?"

"Listen, I'm sorry about your partner," Coronado apologized seriously.

Allen's face darkened. "Yeah. You know, at least the kids are okay," he replied sadly. If nothing else, she had died protecting those kids. _Paula would have been glad, knowing they were safe…_

Just nodding briskly, Coronado hailed down a passing cab, which stopped in front of him. Before getting in, however, Detective Allen called out, "Hey, what happens now? You just keep tracking these guys down?"

"Beats burning in Hell," Coronado replied wearily, climbing into his cab.

"Hey," Allen called, waiting for the Spectre to look back at him. "Knowing all this...you know, how it works... it's all right."

Coronado just smirked back at him sadly. "Knowing is the easy part."

Coronado's taxi pulled out into the night, rejoining the rush of Human traffic lighting up this City of the Living. _Out of the thousands of cabs and millions of faces in the City, how many are occupied by the souls of the Damned? _

Only time would tell.


End file.
